HILLSDALE - James Gleason felt helpless when he realized the militia had more power over his son than he did.

About seven years ago, Bill Gleason suddenly quit his job hauling scrap metal, cut most of his family ties, and moved in with Mark Koernke, a nationally known militia leader who lives in rural Washtenaw County.

“Everything stopped. He ceased doing everything,” James Gleason said. “He was just there with [Koernke.]”

Mr. Koernke's fame was rising in 1993 when Mr. Gleason joined the militia movement and became a bodyguard for the charismatic maintenance-man-turned-militia leader.

By then, Mr. Koernke had become a national spokesman for militia causes, addressing crowds of more than 3,000 people, where he blamed the government for the nation's problems. At rallies, Mr. Koernke sold videotapes on how to start a militia - anti-government groups that promote the right to own guns.

Mr. Koernke was interviewed by national newspapers, TV news programs, and magazines about the movement, about how secret government agents were “controlling the world.''

And wherever he went, Mr. Gleason and other bodyguards donned dark sunglasses as they protected their magnetic leader.

Now, Mr. Koernke has faded into obscurity.

Mr. Koernke has few followers, experts say. He is facing criminal charges and his popular short-wave radio show, where he was known as “Mark from Michigan,'' has been on and off the air.

“He's nothing like he was in '94 and '95,” said Mark Potok, a spokesman for the Southern Poverty Law Center, an organization that monitors hate groups.

Experts said Mr. Koernke's fall from grace began in 1994, when one of his followers forced Mr. Gleason, 25, to dig his own grave and fatally shot him in the head.

Police say Mr. Gleason was killed because two key militia members thought he was Mr. Koernke's informant. They were afraid Mr. Gleason would tell “Mark from Michigan'' that they were unhappy and planned to leave the movement.

Bill Gleason was raised on a Fowlerville, Mich., dairy farm, where he helped his parents and older brother, Jim, milk, feed, and clean up after the animals.

For fun, he would play on the farm and hunt on weekends with his tight-knit family.

At a young age, he was fitted for his first pair of eyeglasses, with frames that had noticeably thick glass lenses.

His poor eyesight didn't stop him from climbing rocks in the Upper Peninsula, camping for days with his golden retriever, Duke, or joining the Reserve Officer Training Corps.

But James Gleason said his son's vision made him ineligible for the U.S. military - his lifelong dream.

So Mr. Gleason began a scrap metal business. One day in 1993, he heard one of his customers talking about Mr. Koernke and the militia movement. It piqued Mr. Gleason's curiosity and he asked questions about the group. And he liked what he heard - they trained in secluded fields with military weapons.

At some point, Mr. Gleason met Mr. Koernke and they hit it off.

Mr. Gleason joined Mr. Koernke's group - United States Militia At Large.

Soon, his life changed. Mr. Gleason abandoned his business and maintained little contact with his family. In essence, the militia and its followers became his life, his new family.

James Gleason believes his son joined the militia because he couldn't join the army. It had some of the same lure - a cause, a powerful leader, guns, and plenty of ammunition.

“The main thing is Bill, he always wanted to get into the military. That's how he got ripped into [the militia],” James Gleason said. “If he had gotten in [to the military], we wouldn't be sitting here.”

Howard Knight, a former Koernke militia member, was drawn to the group for similar reasons. He said he was impressed with Mr. Koernke's anti-government speeches.

“At the time when I actually joined with the militia group, I wasn't feeling good about myself,” Mr. Knight said. “I didn't have a lot of money and what they were saying made a whole lot of sense.”

James Gleason said his son “looked up to Koernke.''

“There was no question of that,” he said. “He promised to take care of him.”

The problems with his son escalated in September, 1994, when Mr. Gleason called from jail after being arrested in Fowlerville on felony weapons charges. He said his son was scared.

James Gleason refused to post bail for his son, hoping that it would teach him a lesson and force him to leave the militia. He later learned that part of his son's bond was paid by the parents of Paul Darland, 29, who was convicted Feb. 12 of killing Mr. Gleason.

After they were released from jail, Mr. Koernke sent Mr. Gleason, Darland, and another militia member, James Joseph Alford, to live on John Stephenson's Hillsdale County farm. He promised them that he would help them with their legal problems.

But after weeks of waiting, Mr. Alford and Darland became skeptical of Mr. Koernke's promises. Then they turned on Mr. Gleason, whom they believed was sending notes to the leader.

So on Oct. 7, 1994, Mr. Stephenson, Mr. Alford, and Darland drove Mr. Gleason to a swampy site in southern Hillsdale County. They told him they were digging a grave for Mr. Koernke. But it turned out to be Mr. Gleason's own grave.

He was shot once in the head with a .45-caliber gun, causing his body to fall into the shallow grave. Militia members covered his body with dirt and fled the scene.

Shortly after Mr. Gleason's death, Darland, Mr. Alford, and Mr. Knight moved from Hillsdale County to a vacant house in Branch County. There, they hid from authorities and stockpiled weapons. But within weeks, authorities arrested Mr. Alford and Mr. Knight. Darland escaped and wasn't arrested until April, 1995.

Months later, Darland was released from jail on felony weapons charges. Authorities suspected then that Mr. Gleason had been murdered, but had no proof.

During that time, Gleason family members hoped for good news.

“For two years, you're thinking maybe he is just hiding,” James Gleason said. “You're told one thing, but you're trying to think another thing.”

It wasn't until December, 1996, that Mr. Gleason's body was found. Mr. Alford, who received immunity in exchange for his testimony, led the Michigan State Police to the gravesite.

The Gleason family cremated the body and had a funeral. But they were unable to put his death to rest.

For more than three years, Darland - who police believed shot Mr. Gleason - was on the run.

He was arrested in June, 2000, in Fort Wayne, Ind., where he was living under a false name. Darland was captured after a strip-club dancer noticed his tattoos, which were pictured on a fugitive poster.

James Gleason and his family attended Darland's three-day trial this month. They heard how Darland shot Mr. Gleason and later bragged and joked about the killing. Darland was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder and will be sentenced March 15.

“Hopefully his just due will come now,” Mr. Gleason said. “I think the part that bothered me was that he bragged about it.”

Many Michigan militia members feel they've received too much negative attention in recent years, stemming from the Oklahoma City bombing to unfair public perception about their cause.

The militia movement gained national attention after Timothy McVeigh blew up the federal building in Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995, killing 168 people and injuring more than 500. Mr. McVeigh, who had attended militia meetings in Michigan, is scheduled to die May 16 by lethal injection.

Some militia leaders said news of Mr. Gleason's murder and Mr. Koernke's group have damaged their reputation, even though they operate separate organizations with different goals.

“It definitely hurts us,” said Ron Gaydosh, brigadier general for the Michigan Militia Corps Wolverines, a statewide organization. “They never do mention a specific group and people think we're all the same.”

Mr. Gaydosh and Nick Stoner, executive director of the Michigan Militia, Inc., said their groups focus solely on protecting the U.S. Constitution. They do not promote white supremacy or violence.

“We try to dispel that we're not the evil, horrible things that people say we are or we've been painted as,” said Kristin Stoner, who operates the Michigan Militia's web site. “We're not terrorists. We don't blow up buildings.”

Leaders of both groups, the two largest in southeast Michigan, said membership hasn't decreased in recent years.

Overall, membership in the militia movement has declined, said Mr. Potok, of the Southern Poverty Law Center.

“The patriot movement is a shadow of what it used to be,” Mr. Potok said. “[Some] people within the patriot movement have gone home. They got tired of waiting for the revolution that never seems to arise.”

Some members of many radical militia groups have joined hate groups or have taken their movements underground, he said.

This has caused a nationwide drop in militia activity from a high of 858 groups in 1996 to a low of 217 groups in 1999, Mr. Potok said. There are less than 10,000 members nationwide, he said.

Despite the decrease, the groups are still monitored.

“There are still enough people running around that we can't discount it,” said Dr. Mark Pitcavage, who works for the Anti-Defamation League, a group that monitors hate organizations. “We can't write it off.”

Experts say the death of Mr. Gleason hurt Mr. Koernke's group, which has since changed its name to the Colonial Marines.

Mr. Koernke, a 43-year-old ex-army intelligence officer, still works at the University of Michigan, where he's been a maintenance mechanic for nearly 20 years. But he's facing a March 19 trial in Washtenaw County on three felony charges involving a chase with police.

He rarely talks to the press and has been trying to keep a low profile. The Blade made several attempts to reach Mr. Koernke for this story.

Over the years, James Gleason and his only other child, Jim, have dealt with the death in different ways.

Mr. Gleason remains angry that his son was killed.

“I resent the fact that someone took that away from me,” he said. “I can't spend time with my son and do the things we liked to do.”

Jim Gleason, 35, still struggles with not knowing why his brother joined the militia. He said their relationship was strained because of it. “It's been tough for me. The way our relationship ended, I have guilt and anger towards him,” he said. “But I know he loved his family very much. I think on some level he knew what he was putting the family through, but I'm at a loss to explain why he did it.

“Regardless, no one would ever deserve the fate he was given.”

First Published February 25, 2001, 2:59 p.m.